Connecting flight was cancelled, repeatedly, spent three days off the cuff wandering New York bed to bed to bed again. Clothing all flipped inside out, again. An entire ailing bank account sucked dry. Feeling out of sorts, disconnected, drifting in the sludge and snow, unable to form real connections even with old friends. And then at the MoMa on a whim I find
Warhol. And Lichtenstein. And Pollock. And Nauman. And the free jazz in the village is a woman who deserves way more attention. And the Cloister at the top of the island accepts a dollar for medieval art. And the subway is full of this.
This city, man. We have a complicated relationship.
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